


Slam Intergalactic, Super Bombastic

by UndergroundValentine



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Bruises, Choking, Gen, Genderfluid Character, Genderfluid!Phasma in ch2, Hair-pulling, Inspired by Music, Masturbating to a video, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, Multi, Mutual Masturbation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-06 12:42:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6754243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UndergroundValentine/pseuds/UndergroundValentine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“sex is an emotion in motion.” - mae west</p><p>because this was for the merry month of masturbation, and now it'll serve as a collection of masturbation/sex oneshots and drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. you could, 'cause you can, so you do

**Author's Note:**

> BECAUSE I CAAAAAN (also because the lovely t0bemadeofglass told me about it and how can I refuse her?)
> 
> ((Putting this at the top since this is now an issue: if Anon - KinkyPeters from wattpad happens to be scrolling through after stealing my shit sometime in January of 2018: go fuck yourself! :D))
> 
> I wasn't able to get all thirty-one days fulfilled for the masturbation challenge, so this will now serve as a collection of separate oneshots and drabbles for masturbation and smut. enjoy!
> 
> Also I will be updating tags with each chapter as necessary, :) I have Hux, Ren, Rey, Finn, and Poe already listed because I know I'm going to be using them. 
> 
> Title's from Darren Hayes' song "Dirty"

It’s lazy Saturdays like these that make Hux grateful he lives alone.  The freedom to step out from his bedroom or shower in as little or as much clothing as he feels necessary is something he knows he takes for granted, yet indulges in anyway.  Because when your only other occupant is a fluffy, orange tabby who spends her days sunbathing or sulking beneath the hem of his jackets, you learn to be a little more open with yourself.

This Saturday is no different from its predecessors; Hux sleeps in as late as his body will allow (a whopping eight- _thirty_ in the morning, instead of his usual seven), rises from the cool comforts of his satin-fitted queen before trumping down the hall and into the kitchen crammed into a small nook of the open space.  There, he begins brewing a pot of coffee, plucks a random piece of fruit (today, an apple), and retraces his steps back towards the bathroom at the other end of his apartment.

What is different, today, is a heaviness between his thighs.

Tossing his head to light sweep the tendrils of his bangs from his eyes, Hux chews carefully on his bite of Granny Smith’s red, glancing down at the swell, the light strawberry blond curls that darken at the roots.  The head is glistening with an onset of slickness that has gone largely ignored, and thus smeared against the inside of his right thigh. 

Huffing, he straightens his shoulders and takes another bite of his apple.

He half expects it to do its own thing; in the past, if he’s let it be, it lingers like an old ache before fading, becoming less problematic with the development of his day.  Today will be no different.

Not that he always ignores morning wood, or any other occurrence that his dick decides to grant him a no-reason-boner.  But there’s never been a real interest in yielding to such simplistic desires _just because_.  Far too many times, he’s sat spread open and staring listlessly at the television, thinking about groceries and bills while tugging and stroking, before releasing while still _thoroughly_ unsatisfied.

Gnawing on the waning edges of the fruit until only the core and a handful of seeds remains, Hux stumbles into the bathroom, a high window tucked into the shower allowing a beam of morning light to wash across the walls and floor.  Dropping the core into the trash beside the toilet, he runs his tongue over his teeth to rid any last traces, rinsing his fingers in the sink.  The tile is cold beneath his feet, and he wiggles his toes against a line of grout.

In front of him, his erection bumps the cabinet when he leans too close to the sink.

Wrinkling his nose, he twists the knob of the sink off, flicking his fingers to shake the loose drops before crossing to the shower.  Adjusting the handle, he holds his palm under the spray before deeming the temperature to be just the right measure of scalding for his tastes before hiking a leg over the tub’s edge.

At once, the water hits, and there’s a groan that presses through the hollow of his throat and behind his teeth.  The spray washes over his chest and down his front, the heat passing over his thighs and along his legs, and Hux has to clench his jaw and lay a palm flat against the shower wall to keep from falling over.

So today _wouldn’t_ be one of those days where he could ignore it. 

Cursing quietly, he shifts out of the water long enough to reach for the soap.  If he’s going to waste time and water jacking it, he might as well do something marginally productive as well.  Gripping the bar lightly, he wets it and massages it between his palms, letting suds and a light film of soap coat his skin before placing it back on the shower caddy.

He can’t quite remember the last time he touched himself, so when the suds cause his fingers to skitter and slide the entire length of himself, he gasps under the tingling sensation.  Pursing his lips, he turns his hand and cups from the underside, letting his fingers circle, the tips touching, as he palms himself. 

Feeling his own pulse, Hux lets something crossed between a laugh and a groan leave his throat.  Dipping his shoulder, he leans into the wall, ducking his head under the shower so that the water doesn’t immediately wash away the soap.  Even then, he hasn’t moved his hand, merely taking the moment to just hold and wait.

He can remember his youth, the first time he experienced the rush of warmth, the way every little twist and pull of his wrist caused him to feel good.  He still remembers the embarrassment, his ears burning hot beneath the waves of his hair, at explaining to his mother and father while he was walking bow-legged, and why everything that touched him aggravated the chafed skin.

Perhaps, he considers, as he alternates between tightening his grip and letting it go slack, that he should be especially grateful that they were kind, and patient.  That they did not laugh at his naivety.

Puffing his cheeks, he dips his head back to let the shower head rain against his face, his mouth dropping in a sigh as he begins to slide his hand.  The soap makes it easy, and with eyes closed he doesn’t watch the bubbles that form over his skin and get pressed into the curled hairs along his groin. 

For a while, he really doesn’t think, only letting his wrist do minimal motions until at last he gets more of his arm into the mess of it.  He staggers his feet, occasionally tipping his hips to meet his palm.  And there is that coiling warmth, the pleasure fizzing to the surface and rippling beneath his skin as though something else is alive inside of him, brimming to be released.

It feels good.  He has to chock it up to the reality that it’s been _too long_ since he last let himself go like this, and the heat of the shower only adds to everything else that he’s already feeling.  But in the darkness of his mind, and the silence of the room, he’s still running into that age-old wall he’s hit since he was seventeen.

He’s _bored_.

Gritting his teeth, he blinks back the drops that have collected along his lashes, dipping his head into the spray to watch as he fucks his palm.  It feels too good to just give up, and he knows that his body will protest.  He will ache, left with a bone-deep sense of agony that will result in a headache, and a soured mood long before anything else can affect him.

Hux can feel, in the deep recesses of his mind, a part of himself that’s begging— _literally_ begging—to think of something, anything, that will make this process more enjoyable.  He’s never been one to be drawn to pornography, has no significant other to turn to for aid.  Which means it’s Saturdays like these when Hux rather hates living alone.

Huffing, he turns and presses his head to the shower wall, letting his eyes slip shut.  Slowing the pace of his hand, he focuses instead on little tugs, changing the grip and the tension.  Just stroking isn’t going to do him any favors, but if he switches up the routine, he might—well, it’s a start at least. 

Behind the darkness of his lids, he forces his mind to wander, to conjure up any image that could be pleasing enough to get him off.  Because he doesn’t want to think about how long he’s already been in here, and is already blindingly reaching for the knob to twist it further to the left for more hot water.  Clenching his jaw, he tightens his grip again, dropping his opposite hand to cup and squeeze his balls gently.  Maybe something extra will elicit a mental response.

It takes a while, but he imagines the classic sex-icons, brushing them each aside with disinterest.  If he were able to get off on fantasizing about celebrities, he would have already done so. 

He thinks about the people from the office, and writes them off immediately.  No need to feel embarrassed or ashamed while at work.

Twisting his wrist again, he groans in frustration, feeling the physical pull toward release, but still fervently beating himself against that wall of being entirely disconnected from his own pleasure. 

Well across the other side of his apartment and, indeed, through the walls, he hears a roar of laughter, full and rich and deep.  And he’s heard it enough times to see the face of the man it belongs to, lightly decorated with dark birthmarks and darker eyes.  Pale faced and with thick hair that hangs in waves, Hux sees, somewhere in the depths as the steam wafts around him, the image of his neighbor, Kylo Ren.

And maybe he should feel guilty for doing this to a man he’s only conversed with a handful of times, usually over a mix-up of mail.  But Hux won’t deny the attractive quality that Ren possesses; for a man who rarely smiles, let alone _laughs_ , there’s an endearing and alluring charm nestled beneath six-plus feet of muscle and… and…

Oh.

Gasping quietly, Hux squeezes his eyes shut against the onslaught of the shower head, twisting and tightening his grip.  He clenches his jaw, grunting quietly as he rolls his hips, flashes of Ren’s smoldering gaze slowly searing into his mind’s eye.  Full lips that pull into a smile, brimming with the deadpan snark that Hux has come to associate as Ren’s form of humor.  He’s only seen such a few times, but it’s always been the kind of fervent comeback that resonates under his bones hours later, when he’s still shaking his head at the glory of it.

And maybe it’s too easy, to see those eyes and those lips and wonder what power they might hold if turned against him.  A shiver races its way along Hux’s spine, and he gasps again.  There’s a humming in his skin, his teeth chattering and hooking into his lip as a pressure builds behind his eyes and in the base of his spine.  For a moment he sees Ren’s smile morph to a smirk, thinks he feels them press to the base of his neck, the pinch of teeth where the hollow meets his shoulder and—

He shouts a curse and comes, sinking into his knees to keep from falling as his free hand slams beneath the shower head.

Panting, he keeps a hold on himself, the tremors racing from head to toe and back again before evening with the pace of his breathing.  Swallowing slowly, Hux makes short, languid work of scrubbing himself clean, letting the water run cold against better judgement before fumbling with the handle.

It’s as soon as the water finishes draining down the tub that he hears a knock at the front door. 

Cursing again, he nearly falls when his jellied-knee fails to lift high enough, and his foot catches on the tub’s edge.  A disgraced shout leaves his lips and his shoulder slams lightly into the wall beneath the towel rack.  Groaning, he reaches for the fibered sheet, dabbing off enough not to drip before wrapping it tight around his waist.  His ignores the rub against his cock, jaw clenched as he stomps to the front door.

On any other Saturday, he would have looked through the peephole of his apartment first.  Today is not that kind of Saturday.  When he unlocks and rips the door open, the pressure building between his brows, coupled with the ache in his shoulder and the sting of his foot, dissipate almost immediately.

“I heard shouting.  Everything all right?”

Kylo.  Fucking.  Ren.

Hux blinks, feeling his ears turn scarlet beneath the clumped, wet tangles of his hair, and he nods abruptly.  In front of him, Ren is casually dressed, a slight smile pulling at the corner of his mouth to match the amusement in his eye.

“If you say so.  I suggest you keep practicing, though.  I don’t think they heard you in Sweden.”

If Hux has any desire for a comeback, it’s lost in the back of his throat as Ren turns away, and saunters down to his own apartment door.


	2. i don't wanna forget how your voice sounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> featuring genderfluid!Phasma!

“Rey!  Slow down!”

She doesn’t, of course, laughing between the soft breaths as she grips clumsily at Phasma’s fingers.  Behind them, the dance flickers and fades like a dream of swirling technicolor and teenage angst.  They don’t have much time, but Rey’s gonna make the most of what they have.

Phasma’s heavy footsteps thump against the linoleum of the halls, and they round a corner before disappearing into a darkened classroom at the far end to the left.  They’d only managed to get away because Poe and Finn were the best friends either of them could ask for, and had distracted the headmaster for the heartbeat it took for Rey and Phasma to slip through the gymnasium doors.

Once inside, Rey turns and shuts the door, locking it with one hand while dropping the blinds with the other.  Cool evening moonlight streams through a few of the windows from the opposite wall, the open lawn beyond stretching toward the track and football field.

Phasma stands, their hands fumbling at the hem of their suit jacket.  The light catches their platinum hair, casting a halo around her head.  Grinning, Rey bites at her lip, nudging Phasma back a step with the gentle push of her fingers against the taller figure’s stomach.  Even in the dark, Rey can feel Phasma’s eyes roaming, a quiet and shaking breath passing between the two of them.

“Desk,” Rey says, taking Phasma’s hand again before pulling them toward the desk and chair at the front of the room.  She hadn’t bothered to see whose room this was, and didn’t immediately recognize it as belonging to any of her teachers.  “Sit,” Rey tells them, motioning to the chair.

Phasma obliges in silence, dropping their hulking figure into the chair.  Shimmying up onto the desk, Rey is chewing lightly on her lower lip, swinging her legs a little.  The pleats of her skirt widen and unfold as she inches her knees apart, beckoning for Phasma to come closer.  Blue eyes rimmed lightly in kohl are illuminated by a beam of light, Phasma’s cream colored skin practically glowing in contrast to their black suit. 

But they do slide the chair forward, and Rey rests the insides of her feet against the chair’s rungs beneath the seat, her knees nearly framing Phasma’s ribs.  There’s a smile at the corner of Phasma’s mouth, pulling lightly at the scar along the right side.  Leaning forward, Rey slides her hands over Phasma’s shoulders, pressing her mouth to the mark, the indent warm and smooth.

She feels Phasma’s fingers tickling along the curves of her calves, sliding up and cupping behind her knees.  Angling herself, she kisses them fully, a breath and a beat passing before their mouth opens, teasing the bow of Rey’s lip.  Laughing softly, she tastes them, feeling a surge rushing from her spine to her hips, coiling around her legs.

Shivering, Rey kisses Phasma again and again, only somewhat aware of the paths that Phasma’s fingers draw up her thighs and under her skirt.  There’s a dig and a press, and Rey only breaks away long enough for Phasma to hook their fingers into the waistband of her underwear.  Lifting herself off the desk, she feels heat bloom beneath her cheeks and up into her ears as Phasma’s hands appear from under the pleats of her skirt, cotton clutched in their grip.

A mouth covers her own again, and Rey moans loudly under the weight of it, her hand fumbling and clutching at Phasma’s chrome tie, the plastic-layer crinkling in her grasp.  Phasma shifts, standing, and Rey dips her head back to accommodate the change.  Hands are on her hips, holding and warm.  Shimmying her legs, she feels the cotton slide and drape around her ankles, before kicking them free.

Her heart is in her throat when Phasma pulls back, their hands trailing up to Rey’s ribs.  Panting softly, she takes a moment to wet her lips.  “Why’d you stop?”

“You sure you want to do this?”

Blinking, Rey smiles. 

“Yeah.  I’m sure.  You?”

“Yes,” it’s more of a hiss than a response, and Phasma leaves a kiss against the underside of Rey’s jaw. 

They kiss for another moment or more, Rey’s hands wandering from their tie to their shoulders, fingers trailing to the nape of their neck to play with the layers of blonde hair.  It’s in this quiet that Rey notes the fruit punch on Phasma’s tongue, the near perfect lines of their teeth, the softness of their lips.  Phasma’s hands, large and strong, soften in their hold as they trace around to Rey’s front, before resting on her thighs.

And there’s that shiver again in the base of Rey’s spine, a burning anticipation that flutters in her chest and bubbles past her mouth in a breathy chuckle.  There’s a shadow that crosses between them when Phasma moves out of the light, their breath warm against Rey’s skin with a kiss and a nip into the hollow where her shoulder meets her throat.  Moaning quietly, Rey tips her head, the highway of her neck stretching, offering, and Phasma’s fingers slide under her skirt once more.

They’re gentle and soft, massaging and digging into the swell of her thighs, easing her open just a little more. 

And when the first touch presses to her core, she feels a sting and a spark, her pulse faltering in its rhythm between her legs.  Gasping quietly, her fingers curl and hold tight, eyes shut to the world so that she can just feel every tiny touch and stroke.  At first, it’s just the tip of a single finger, swiping delicately along her folds, barely even gracing her clit.  And then it’s two fingers, spreading her open, pressing firmly, occasionally circling _around_ but never quite _over_.

Even then, Phasma is leaving open-mouthed kisses on Rey’s throat and jaw, biting every once in a while to earn an extra yelp or sigh.

Cursing quietly, Rey clenches her jaw as Phasma’s finger slides the length of her before pressing, teasing, and inching its way in.  And she moans, loud and careless, as her head falls back, because Phasma is stock head to toe and yet their touch is agile and delicate, rubbing in just the right spots.  She feels them shift, the butt of their hand pressing fully to her, their finger curling up and into that—

“ _Fuck_!”  Rey shouts, jerking as the sensation, coupled with Phasma’s palm covering her clit, sets her skin on fire.

“Hush,” Phasma breathes, and Rey can see a flush coloring their face and throat.  “Do you want to get caught?”

“I don’t care s’long as you do that again,” Rey groans, clenching tightly.  Above her, Phasma chuckles, and nips at her earlobe.

“Whatever you’d like,” they tell her, repeating the motion before easing a second finger inside.  Faltering back, Rey moans helplessly, one of her own hands dropping to cover Phasma’s palm, pressing down against her groin.  The pressures paints stars over her eyes, and Rey cries out again.

She thinks she hears Phasma groan, or curse, but the pulsing in her body blasts to a ring that dances in her bones and screams along her nerves.  Grinding back against their fingers, Rey huffs into the fabric of Phasma’s jacket, before something in her body tightens painfully and snaps all at once.  She feels like a band, soaring through the air as pleasure swims and suffocates her entirely.  She doesn’t even register Phasma’s mouth silencing her wail as she comes.

There’s a blur of white that fuzzes over her vision, and Rey trembles as an emptiness overwhelms her when Phasma slides their fingers free.  She wants to fall back, to lay in this hazy sea of punch-flavored lips and blonde halos, but Phasma’s hands are tugging her skirt down and dragging her off of the desk.

“Wha—” Rey breathes, bleary and jelly-limbed.

“We have to go,” Phasma’s voice cuts through the cocoon, rugged and serious.  But a glint in her eye keeps the smile on Rey’s face, and she only barely snatches up her discarded underwear before being pulled to the door.


	3. i could corrupt you in a heartbeat

The moans are muffled into the curve of her hand, the glare of her phone’s light garish in the dark of her room.  This is the sixth time she’s watched this video, her opposite hand buried under the fabric of her shorts as her fingers swirl and tease at her cunt, but it’s the first thing that popped up and caught her eye after endless scrolling.  She’d be an idiot to pass it up now.

It’s a simple thing, really, a point-of-view shot of a cock sinking deep into a slender, pale, ginger-haired man’s ass.  There’s a dusting of freckles across the shoulders, a birthmark that is just left-of-center from the spine, and long, pale fingers that occasionally trace it, digging and dipping and leaving red welts on the hip.  Sounds of pleasure are soft, resigned to quite gasps and stuttered moans, accompanied with a rare _Kylo_ , and an even softer _Elan_ …

The hand that’s left bruises snakes along the spine and threads into orange and sunlit locks, pulling the head back.  The camera angle tilts and tips, the reflection bearing the image of an angular-faced man with eyes screwed shut, the length of his throat dotted in red and purple bites.  His collarbones are sharp, hands fisted into the sheets as his mouth opens in a moan.  Behind him, holding the phone just below his face, is a dark-haired man with full lips and a wide nose, curls framing his high cheeks and hooded eyes.

Gritting her teeth, Rey circles her fingers around the swell of her clit again, gasping softly as a moan bubbles along her tongue, tickling the seam of her lips as she resolves to swallow the sound.  The camera dips again, her eyes following the rhythm of hips meeting in the middle, her breathing falling in line.  Dipping a single digit into herself, she sighs deeply, matching pace and time until she can almost convince herself that she can feel that cock, too.

The hand shifts and cups over the marks, and she’s wide-eyed as the fingers squeeze and dig, the ginger’s mouth falling open as something guttural and feral falters into the air, weak and breathless.  But his fingers curl and pull at the sheets, before a hand comes and palms over the one holding his throat, and adds to the pressure. 

She wishes she had a third hand, so that she can watch, and fuck herself, and try it all the same.

Another grunt, and a labored _Elan_ breathes into the phone’s mic, and even in the haste, she memorizes the lines and angles of their bodies.  There’s a flurry before the phone is dropped, darkness enveloping the screen.  But the sounds are loud, and clear, and Rey listens for the sixth time the sound of skin meeting hard and rapidly, followed by a gasp and a cry of pleasure that stings her skin and claws its way down into her bones.

She lets the phone drop onto the pillow beside her as the video starts over again with its gentle breathing.  Even in the dark, with her eyes slipping shut, she can see them moving, fucking, bleeding into one another as though their star matter bears the same origin.  Sinking a second finger to join the first, she presses her nails to her skin, leaving scratches all the curves of her breasts.  She pulls and pinches her nipples, biting her lip as her fingers scissor and stretch inside of herself, the ball of her hand rubbing lightly against her clit.

Licking her lips, she arches off her bed, listening to whispered sighs and names that sound more like confessions, and she drags her hand up her body, fingers teasing at her throat.  Bumps prickle and fan across her skin at once, a shiver dancing its way through her spine.  She rests it there, the weight and anticipation more than enough to spurn her desires.  She eases a third finger in, groaning.

Listening for the hitch that tells her the hair is pulled, Rey presses her head into her pillow, lengthening her own throat to the invisible tug that tingles in her roots.  She adds pressure over her throat, panic flaring under the skin, and she relaxes it briefly.  It’s too hard, too much, and she shifts her hand a little lower, her pinky just above her right collarbone.

Breathing slowly, she presses her thumb and index finger, a thin band of pressure against her throat.  It’s enough to twist the heat in her stomach, and she can still taste the air beneath fluttering breaths.  Soaked, she slides her fingers free, and rubs her clit instead.  Stars filter in at the edges of her vision, and she opens her mouth even as nothing leaves her.

She can hear the groans and gasps, and tightens her middle finger, widening the choke as her walls clench.  Her heels dig into the mattress.  Eyes squeezed shut, she clenches her jaw, baring her teeth to the dark as her ring finger presses as well.

Rey’s hardly aware of the burning in her abdomen, the searing sensation of orgasm that’s blossoming in her spine and raging like a tidal wave through her nerves, because she’s too busy listening to them moan and scream, a whispered _Elan_ sounding through the white of her vision.  Her mouth forms the name, and her hand releases from her throat, teeth sinking into her fingers as she jerks and folds in on herself, coming so hard that when her senses do finally return, they’re ringing and bright.

Panting, the blinding hot of her body shivers and cools until the ache in her muscles abates to jelly and calm.  She can hear breathing, kissing, a throaty _Kylo_ tickling near her ear.  Rolling to her side, she fumbles for her phone, squinting at the image before bookmarking the page.  She’ll need to find a way to save it.

Flipping back to the page, she watches the video once more, fingers drawing circles along the warm lines of her throat.  When she falls asleep, the sounds are still coming from her phone, and she dreams that she’s in the middle of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Elan" is a fictional name originally used/created by hollycomb in the series "Children Wake Up". You can find it here on AO3; I encourage you all to read it <3  
> http://archiveofourown.org/series/386986


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